Cards to be Dealt
by Outakurebecca
Summary: The separation caused by Sherlock's fall has had a concerning effect on John. He knows it's not real, the life he imagines for them, but it's not easy to tear himself away from what he wants most. Slight parent!lock.
1. Chapter 1

John awoke no better than the day before. Bleary sight blinked back into his sleep hazed eyes, images that were not his duvet alone. If he hadn't been so groggy, he would have pulled away, but as it were-

"Morning, beautiful," came Sherlock's deep murmur. The corners of his mouth turned up at John's incredulous face, and the look in his eyes was nearly... endearing. There were also the circles of Sherlock's thumb being smoothed onto his cheek and the accompanying warmth of his hand resting on the side of his face.

"Since when," John articulated impressively for his lack of coherent thought, "do you call me 'beautiful'?"

"Out loud? The same time you allowed me to do this," Sherlock answered. His low, lovers-tone was breathy enough to strike lust into the heart of a stone. John was making a valiant attempt not to melt with it washing over his face, the source of it inches away and closing.

"No, you're-" John protested. He scrunched his eyes shut and flung them open again. When he did, the breath was gone, the hand on his face, the endearing look, the angled cheekbones, gone, gone, gone. Sherlock was absent, with not even a crease in the covers to prove he had been there at all.

"-not real," John finished. He shuttered, feeling the crease between his brows deepen. The delusions were getting worse.

/p

Breakfast was another hardship. John found himself making more food and setting out more plates than if he were eating by himself. Which he was.

"Could I help?" a small voice asked from the height of his knees.

John inhaled sharply. "Please don't, Hamish."

"But Papa, I-"

"I mean it Hamish!" John shouted. He shook the boy's hands off where they clutched at his trouser leg. Hamish stumbled back, a watery film gathering on his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I-" John saw every crying child at the clinic in the face of his invented son. Hamish choked out a sob and covered his face with fisted hands. One blink of the eye and he wasn't there anymore. Only the early sunlight graced the floorboards.

"Blast it," John muttered. The breakfast he had made went straight from the frying pan to a spare Tupperware container. It still had a label taped on it from last week that read, "for godssake, eat if you're hungry, Sherlock." John had eaten half of it himself and thrown out the rest. His imaginary Sherlock ate even less than the original.

He set it unceremoniously on the refrigerator shelf next to the quart of chocolate milk he had picked up for Hamish. John would have to throw it out soon, no one was going to drink it.

/p

The sight of Mrs. Hudson brought with it a sigh of relief. She was the only other real, certainly existing resident of the building. She was his last shred of sanity.

"Morning, Mrs. Hudson," he said as cheerily as he could manage.

"Good day, dearie," Mrs. Hudson smiled affectionately.

A small, floppy-eared hound followed John down the steps to the door that opened onto Baker Street. John cringed.

"Something wrong?" Mrs. Hudson noticed. She had the keenest eyes when it came to John reacting to his delusions, even if she never put together exactly what she was seeing.

"No, nothing," John answered quickly. "Gladstone, stay," he commanded the dog in a more urgent undertone.

"What?" she was looking at him funny from the middle of the steps. "Did you say something?"

"Not at all," John assured her. "Have a good one, Mrs. Hudson." He casually barred the dog from crossing the threshold after him with his foot. Gladstone whimpered and scratched at the door. John heard the hollow scratches until the door clicked shut, then there was an abrupt lack of dog-related noises.

John took a moment while facing the door to steel himself for the day. When he turned to face the street he was nearly nose to nose with Anthea. John was wholly startled. She could care less judging by her disregard to the civility of eye contact.

"Good day," she mumbled. Her fingers clacked across the keys of her mobile.

"Morning," John answered. He maneuvered around her for a quick escape if he needed it. Mycroft had dropped by a few times since- since a certain time, but he only sent Anthea when he felt the need to fetch John for a more private conversation. John wasn't up to that today, or most days for that matter, and told her so.

"Alright," she said simply. The word sat in the air like the last chicken wing on a party platter that everyone wants but no one will touch.

"Excuse me," Anthea pushed past John when he made no further attempt at argument. "You needn't follow."

"Into my own house...!" he protested, but did not make a move to pursue her. He gathered from the six footfalls (far short of the seventeen it took to reach the actual flat) and the high-heeled air of finality that Anthea had no intention to enter the flat. She had just stopped off for a chat with Mrs. Hudson. Perfectly normal.

Not in the least.

"Who are you?" Mrs. Hudson asked. She wasn't a girlfriend of John's for obvious reasons.

"Dr. Watson's psychologist," Anthea said with a sympathetic look and offered handshake. Her phone and normal, aloof personality were nowhere in sight.

"Oh! You just missed him," Mrs. Hudson nodded toward the door.

"Actually, I was hoping to have a word with you," Anthea explained, her voice slightly hushed. "I need another perspective on Dr. Watson's situation. How has he been, as of late?"

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips. "Not well, I'm afraid. He's talking more, which is good, but sometimes I hear him when there's no one else in the flat. It's not the telly, he spends most of his time writing. Just the other day I saw him leave swatting around his head like he was being swarmed by insects! He was cursing about bees, of all things. I keep a clean place, I assure you, there aren't any pets or pests allowed."

"I see," Anthea said curtly. "Thank you, that's all I need."

"Any time, dearie."

Anthea's uninvolved expression reappeared the moment she stepped off the welcome mat. She shot a quick text to Mycroft to report her findings.

_It's worse. More supervision required. -Anthea_


	2. Chapter 2

A constant that John maintained despite the fluctuations in his sanity was his day job. He supposed that without cases it was just his job. The illusions never left the confines of the flat, so John could count on anything he saw at the clinic to be real.

It was so hard to leave the flat.

"Good morning, John," Sarah greeted him when he entered the clinic.

"Morning," John returned.

"You look awful," Sarah informed him. Her eyebrows were turned up in the middle with concern. "Are you a doctor or patient today?"

"I'm clocking in either way," he joked humorlessly.

Sarah didn't laugh. "If you need anything, just ask. Okay?"

"Thanks," said John. He had no intention on taking her up on the offer.

/p

The CCTVs were in place. For the time being, Mycroft had only authorized surveillance of the sitting room. That was enough coverage to confirm his fears.

John ate half of the morning's rejected breakfast and threw the rest out, as per usual. He tried to down a glass of chocolate milk, but it must have spoiled already, it tasted so bitter.

Gladstone nearly tripped him on the way to his favorite sitting chair. He hadn't seen him before the dog began to weave around his feet, probably because there had been nothing to see. John chuckled at himself for being so clumsy and Gladstone trotted off on stumpy legs to where Sherlock sat on the couch. After pawing and whining at Sherlock's leg, the detective gave in and hefted him up onto his lap. Gladstone wagged his tail and Sherlock couldn't help a slight smile.

John settled into his chair with his laptop. He didn't wright blog posts anymore; he didn't have the time with his book on its way to being published. His editor had been thrilled with his first draft, which was essentially taken word for word from his blog. However, John had been told that it was too short. The editor had hoped that he would include his last adventure with Sherlock, but as that wasn't an option for John, he had been asked to go back and add more detail to what he had.

"More embellishments?" Sherlock asked. It wasn't really a question; he made it seem like it was for John's benefit.

"What makes you think that?" John answered. He opened up the Baskerville case and began scanning for holes in description.

Sherlock shrugged.

_Shrugged_.

Something the real Sherlock would never do. John closed his eyes to gather himself for a moment. The real Sherlock would have explained how simple a deduction it was, with John's writing habits, the difference in his posture when he was reading his own work as opposed to the work of others. The real Sherlock would have said something mildly insulting. The real Sherlock was above John's ability to predict with all his intricacies.

The real Sherlock was dead.

Even if John was the single person on Earth with the most knowledge of him, Sherlock functioned on too high of a level for John to recreate perfectly. He couldn't think up evidence fast enough for the fake Sherlock to deduce. Sometimes his imagined side of reality fell through.

John called up a memory of Baskerville. Baskerville was safe. He hadn't been there since the fall, so all the Sherlocks that he knew from there were real.

Another memory intruded on him. During the Blind Banker case, Sherlock had told him about the swift decay of human visual recollection. He felt the press of the gloved hands on his face as he was spun around, Sherlock urgently telling him to focus, focus-

_"Keep your eyes fixed on me."_

John practically threw his laptop on the table. He brought his knees up to his chest and sat. _Idiot_, he thought, _how could I look at anyone else?_

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "John," Sherlock said cautiously. "John, you're okay."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Maybe you should call it an early night," Sherlock suggested. "Come up to bed-"

"That's _enough_, Sherlock!" John stood up. "You're. Not. Real." He punctuated each word with a jab of his finger to Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock stepped back, confusion ingrained on his face. "Don't be daft, John, of course I'm-"

"Don't you dare," John cut him off. "Sherlock Holmes is dead."

"I am Sherlock Holmes."

"Then I don't believe in Sherlock Holmes!" John shouted.

The words resounded in an empty flat. No Gladstone. No Hamish. No bees. No Sherlock. Only John's ragged breathing and a pain in his chest.

The words had left his mouth, but they hadn't completely left him. He felt them, they tainted his lungs, his blood, every tissue in his body. They took up physical space in the room around him. They pushed him back into his chair. They put pressure on him until he couldn't take up any less space. They were all around him, and there was no fooling himself into thinking that they weren't real.

Mycroft watched the monitor silently. This was getting out of hand. John Watson wouldn't last another day in this state with his sanity intact.

It took him a week to contact the one person who could help.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had never been superstitious about anything. He still wasn't. What he was doing was a necessity, a habit that served as a reminder.

"That's a lot of apples you got there, bud." The check out clerk at the grocery store was bored enough to talk to anybody. That did nothing to excuse his comment, which were wholly unwanted.

"How observant of you," Sherlock responded curtly.

"You can't possibly eat all those before they go bad," the clerk continued, unaware of the annoyed undertone in Sherlock's voice. "You making a pie? Canning, maybe?"

"Oh don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. "I'm not purchasing any more supplies, baking or the like, and I clearly don't own then already. If baking was a hobby, my hands would be drier from excessive washing. And no one would waste their time canning this Frankenfruit, they can pick it up whenever they like year round."

Sherlock would know, he'd been stockpiling apples for over two years. At first he'd bought them in rational amounts, one bag at a time. The repeated trips to various supermarkets became tedious, however, and he now took to purchasing the fruits in larger quantities.

He needed them. An apple a day keeps the doctor away, the saying goes. Sherlock didn't believe it for a second. A more accurate assessment of the situation was that they served as a reminder to stay away from John.

There was a variety of apples to keep him sharp and focused on his mission. Tart, green types stung his tongue back to feeling when he was lonely and hopeless. Small, soft ones he could fit three at a time in each pocket, perfect for days with a lot of walking and running, action days. Sturdy, sweet Mt. Fuji apples were a treat after taking out a particularity pesky branch of Moriarty's web. Apples that were more water than taste were best for the numb times, days when any stimuli was grating. Golden Delicious were for insufferably cloudy occasions, days when the sight he most wanted to see in the world wasn't the sun but John's laughing face. Years of experimenting had yielded unarguable data.

"Alright, so you've got a slew of kids to feed or something? If you're not making 'em into pie or canning 'em. The apples, I mean." Even after the man had been paid, he would not shut up.

"For god's sake, that's the farthest guess from the truth so far." He knew he should walk away, that his displays of intelligence were wasted on this man, but it had been so long since he last explained anything out loud. There was simply no one there to listen. "My clothes aren't crumpled, hardly a stain on them. Parents or caregivers of many are always in some sort of disarray. I don't carry keys to a car, house or flat; that's almost always a must as far as large families. I don't even have cat hair on me because I live completely alone."

"Sorry I asked," the clerk said, acting as if the whole ordeal was caused by Sherlock's rudeness, not his own prying statements.

Sherlock left the static lights of the market and made his way back to his make-shift residence, a bag of apples in each hand. It had gotten harder after his return from France, not seeking out John. There was always the possibility of running into him by chance when he was in London. Chances that he could influence in either direction, depending on the strength of his will.

His first night back, before he developed the trick with the apples, he had seen John in the park. He was too far away to notice Sherlock, but much closer than they had been to each other in over a year. The desire to run to him had been so strong that he had to turn away. Fiddling with his hands did nothin to distract him and his mouth was terribly dry. He'd bought his first apple that day for something to get him away from the place. Staying any longer would have compromised the whole charade, the point of being dead.

The first bite had been tart. Green and thick-skinned on the outside and a pale sour on the inside. He concentrated on that instead of John. It only moved the discomfort from his chest to his mouth, but it was enough.

His mobile rang when he was crossing the street. He had to change phones and numbers fairly often, but Mycroft was never more than a few days behind the swaps. Sherlock transferred his single-sort groceries to one hand to dig his mobile out of his pocket.

"Number withheld" glowed on the screen. Nothing new. He answered.

"What is it now?" Sherlock snapped, but without any real effort to add bite to his tone. He braced himself for his idiot brother to ramble on about such-and-such a dilemma he wanted dealt with. Whatever it was, it could wait. He was busy.

"Hello, Sherlock."

Not Mycroft.

"How's the chase going?" the voice on the other end continued. "Not too well since you haven't caught me yet~"

"Patience Moran," Sherlock growled. "You won't be able to say that much longer."

Moran clicked his tongue in mock skepticism. "I'll say what I want. And so will your precious John Watson."

John. "What have you done?"

"_I_ haven't done a thing. Just swiped some audio files from a tippy-top secret place. Would you care to hear them? I'll play them anyway."

Sherlock stood stalk still in the middle of the pavement. People gave him looks as they stepped around him.

John's voice filled his ears. It was grainy coming through the line, but there was no doubting that it was him. A laughed conversation with Mrs. Hudson. As normal as any day in 221B.

Next was John humming to himself. The acoustics of their kitchen. His kitchen, Sherlock corrected himself. It was so nostalgic, like he had never left.

Like he wasn't needed.

"What's the point of this?" Sherlock asked.

"Shh, this is my favorite!" Moran returned. The vengeful smile in his voice was not concealed at all.

_"Sherlock Holmes is dead."_ John's voice said. Sherlock cringed. The words were devoid of any tiny amount of faith that had been in his farewell in front of his grave. He didn't want to hear any more, but John's voice at his ear was the closest he had to-

_"Then I don't believe in Sherlock Holmes!"_

The phone slipped from his fingers and cracked on the sidewalk. He'd only broken two phones in his life. One was in an evidence bag at Bart's and the other was at his feet, cackling at him.


	4. Chapter 4

Less than a day had passed since the surveillance had been installed. Already Mycroft had significant reason for worry. His brother, who was not dead, contrary to popular belief, had placed a rare shred of trust in him to protect the three targets of Moriarty's snipers. Namely John.

Now that it was clear that John was in danger, but not from something he was equips to neutralize, like snipers, Mycroft was finding it exceedingly difficult to get John the proper care. Namely Sherlock.

He tossed his umbrella aside to snatch the phone from his incompetent lackey's hand, as if it mattered who dialed the number. Sherlock hadn't picked up the previous four times, but perhaps some dormant family bond would call out to him this time?

Ring. Ring. Ring. Half ring. Mycroft held his breath.

"You have reached the voicemail of-"

"Blast," Mycroft cursed under his breath. He must be using a new number again. The prospect of hitting something with his umbrella made Mycroft's fingers itch toward the handle, but Anthea's entrance reminded him to keep his composure.

"His new number," she said simply, handing him a fresh sheet of paper. A series of digits were printed in shining ink, still wet. Mycroft accepted the information gratefully.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Half ring. Mycroft stared the machine down, daring it to disobey.

"This is the voicemail of no one in particular. If you'd like to purchase a cake, or a few dozen, kindly piss off."

This was definitely Sherlock's new number. Why wasn't the smug git answering?

"Trace the location," Mycroft commanded with more force than he intended. Anthea nodded and walked off. If Sherlock wasn't picking up his phone, Mycroft thought, there was no excuse to evade being picked up by a certain black car.

/p

Why was he so cold? John wondered. He never used to be this cold. Maybe in personality, an aspect he was much warmer with now, but in actual body temperature.

Just today, the night after their awful fight (though now he couldn't remember what it had been about), Sherlock had gotten up from lying on the couch and John had quickly snatched his seat. He had expected an indent of leftover warmth in the cushions, but there had been nothing.

How odd, he had thought with a frown. A dull buzz had started at the base of his skull, like a thought he was trying to remember. It had gotten louder and more persistent, almost painful. Just when he thought he could reach it Sherlock had returned and sprawled out next to him, and the ache went silent and was soon forgotten.

It returned the next day. In his mind, the buzz was a rolled up piece of scrap paper with insect wings. It flitted about in his head when he was alone. If Sherlock and Hamish and Gladstone were gone for long enough, he could almost feel the edges of the paper at his finger tips. It was at those times that he was struck with a sense of urgency. Whatever was written on the paper with the delicate wings must be important. So important that the tiny wings risked being crushed to deliver the message, a message whose sole recipient was him.

Then Hamish would appear and ask for help with some game or Gladstone would whine to be fed and the bug would be displaced in the thoughts of John Watson.

/p

The GPS beeped when the car reached the destination. Mycroft scanned the street in agitation. This couldn't be right. According to the device, Sherlock should be standing directly in front of him. Even as a master of disguise, he couldn't fool his own brother.

Anthea gave him a concerned look from across the backseat. In no time at all, a text bounced from her phone to Sherlock's. A fractured tone could be heard from outside the car.

Mycroft wrenched open the door. A few feet from the curb was a phone with a shattered screen. He bent to pick it up. The screen still glowed with a notification for a text from an unavailable number. Mycroft transferred the broken thing to a plastic bag, though he suspected there wasn't much evidence remaining on it.

He slid back into the car. Disappointment tainted his calm features. "Take us back," he told the driver.

"What next?" Anthea asked after a moment.

Mycroft exhaled and messages the space between his brow with two fingers. "Phone records and CCTV footage should be in by the time of our return," he offered without much hope. He could tell from his brief standing in the spot of his brother's disappearance that the camera angles he had to work with were nothing to brag about. Sherlock was making a real effort to be untraceable during his vigilante-style purge of spider webs. Not impossible to find, Mycroft was determined and well-resourced, but the real question was how much time there was to spare.

Sherlock was out on his own, fighting so hard. Mycroft's duty was to preserve what he was fighting for. He would never forgive himself if Sherlock had nothing to come home to.

/p

Day three since the un-remembered fight: the bug was getting weaker. John barely noticed it anymore. His family was keeping him busy, he didn't have time for such headaches.

Hamish had discovered the joys of drawing. His little hands had found and used every writing utensil in the flat and dulled them to a stub. The drawings themselves were rarely seen, Hamish said he wanted to get them just right before he showed them to anyone.

"I'm not sleepy...!" Hamish insisted, rubbing his eyes. Even as he said this, his head drooped to one side. His hair, the color of Sherlock's, the texture of John's, was in static against the headboard. The black and yellow Batman bedspread was rumpled at the other end of the mattress where Hamish had kicked it off. John pulled it up over the matching Batman footie pajamas.

"I know you're excited to use your new crayons," John said softly, "but there will be plenty of time to draw tomorrow. Rest those eyes so that you can make good use of them in the morning, eh?" He tapped his son's nose.

"You don't make Dad sleep," Hamish pouted, wrinkling his nose. To Hamish, Sherlock was Dad and John was Papa.

"Yes, I do," John corrected sternly. "Not as often as I'd like, but I promise, your dad and I have to do the boring requirements of life just as much as you do."

Hamish smiled a secret smile that John caught right away.

"And don't you think I don't know about all the times you've stayed up late with those mystery novels," John warned. "Even if Dad is the one reading them to you."

Hamish giggled and wiggled further under the covers. "G'night, Papa," he said when only his nose and up was showing.

"G'night, you," John whispered back. He pecked a kiss on his son's forehead and clicked off the bedside lamp.

/p

"You really are a bad influence on Hamish's sleeping habits," John said to the Sherlock in the mirror with a mouthful of toothpaste.

Sherlock huffed. "Someone has to teach him to prioritize."

"Health is a priority," John insisted. He rinsed, spit, and replaced his toothbrush in the cup. They got ready for bed together more often than not, so it wasn't that Sherlock disregarded cleaning his teeth, but John always ran out of toothpaste long before he did. John shrugged. He must have toothpaste efficiency down to a science.

"You're a priority," Sherlock reminded him, wrapping his arms around John from behind.

John gave an amused scoff. "Is that so?"

"Obviously," Sherlock murmured in his ear. John rather liked how he was just the right height to have his lips at the shell of his ear like that.

They shared Sherlock's room since Hamish had John's old one. John liked the arrangement: their sleepy embrace, the familiar comforter and the muted wallpaper. He couldn't shake the feeling, however, that no matter how close he pressed to Sherlock, he was always cold.


	5. Chapter 5

The trail had gone cold. Mycroft was exerting every effort, every resource available to him (and some that weren't) to find his brother, but nothing worked. It had been five days since John's incident. Each day John was worse. Mycroft feared he was slipping by the hour at this point.

The clinic was a good environment, a minimal amount of Sherlock and Hamish encounters happened there. However, John would occasionally pick up his phone like he'd gotten a text. He'd read the dark, vacant screen and smile to himself. If he wasn't seeing a patient, he'd even type a reply. They went straight to Mycroft's office. It was eerie only getting half the imaginary conversation.

Stop that, I'm at work. JW

I'm sure you can handle it on your own. JW

I won't be home for a few hours yet. Do try to behave yourself. JW

Don't forget about Hamish! He needs at least a smidgen of your attention between mind palace visits. JW

Right. Love you too. JW

/p

Day seven since John's incident.

"We've traced the new number," Anthea reported. She read it off the monitor for Mycroft to mash into the number pad.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Half ring. Bloody hell, not another false-

"Hello," the answering voice was flat. Mycroft allowed himself a sigh of relief. The voice was devoid of the normal snark but it was Sherlock all the same.

"We have a situation," Mycroft cut right to it. Moran and his men would tap the line before long if they hadn't already. "John is-"

"Don't talk to me about John," Sherlock interrupted with death in his voice. "I know. You don't have to tell me."

"So you're coming back, then?" Mycroft had a feeling they weren't on the same page.

"I heard him, Mycroft." He could practically see Sherlock massaging his forehead with his palms like he always did when something was obvious. "He doesn't need me. He doesn't want me there. It's over. I get it."

"Sherlock Holmes. You have never been more wrong than in this moment," said Mycroft. "John is in danger, and you're the only one-"

"Would you just lay off it!" Sherlock shouted. "I have to finish my job out here. It's the last thing I'll ever do for him. Then, once he's safe, I'll disappear for good. I'll move far away from London and it'll be exactly like I'm dead. Nothing will change for him."

Sherlock was breathing heavily. Mycroft's skin crawled to hear him in such a state. Where was the confidence that was so ingrained in his little brother? What could have happened to make him like this? In over two years of Sherlock's fake death, he had not witnessed this level of hopelessness.

"Are you done interrupting?" Mycroft asked at last. "This is a time sensitive issue and you are making things tedious to explain."

Sherlock scoffed but stayed silent.

"I need you back at 221B immediately," Mycroft continued. "If you don't return, they may be no John left to protect. It's already questionable how much can be salvaged."

"I'm not one for tricks, Mycroft-"

"Shut up and bloody listen to me!" Mycroft yelled into the receiver of the phone. Anthea flinched from her station at the monitors. "John's in a state. I... can't explain it over the phone. He needs something to ground him. He needs you."

The was a beat of silence before Sherlock spoke. "Even if I did... go to him... that would increase the danger he's in. Moran is still out there. He could still set a sniper on John at any time. I've nearly got him, I just need more time, no more than a month-"

"Sherlock. John doesn't have any more time. He's in the red on that front."

Silence. There was no street noise, no background chit-chat. A blank wall of no clues to Sherlock's location. Just that he was alone. Utterly alone.

Anthea pulled up the GPS location of the phone on the monitor, as if she had read Mycroft's mind. There was a red dot marking the spot among the twisting grey-on-black city layout. It was still. A left turn would bring him to Baker Street, any other way would leave John; just as he had promised.

"Can you ensure Moran's uninvolvment?" Sherlock asked. His red dot on the screen wavered.

"I can give you forty eight hours," Mycroft promised. "We can work out the details later. I'll call ahead for Mrs. Hudson to leave the door unlocked."

"Yes, right-" His dot was already on the move.

"And Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever you're expecting," Mycroft took a breath. "It's worse."

"I doubt it," said Sherlock. He hung up.

/p

Sherlock's new phone dropped into his pocket. His mind was racing ahead of him. John. He was going to see John. Not just at a distance followed by a hasty retreat, but to be able to talk to him, to be seen by him...!

It was a struggle to keep from running. The first trash can he passed became the new home for the store of apples in his coat. He didn't need to keep himself away from the doctor any longer.

Left turn onto Baker Street. Speedy's was just ahead. Adrenaline was seeping in, he had to keep his head clear. A quick, thorough sweep of the surrounding buildings showed no signs of snippers. The people he passed weren't suspiciously avoiding his gaze. There was no evidence that Mycroft would allow any holes in the security of this street.

The door to 221B was unlocked as promised. Sherlock reminded himself to breath, the task seeming even more dull than usual compared to what he was doing. What he was finally doing.

Seventeen steps and he was in the flat. In many ways, everything was the same. It wouldn't have caused alarm to someone who was simply looking in. Sherlock, however, was cursed with what he observed.

Crayons on the floor. Dog dish in the corner. The scent of John's least favorite tea.

"Sherlock?" John's voice. Surprise: mild. Location: kitchen.

"I'm home, John," Sherlock tested his voice. It was strained.

"Didn't realize you'd gone out," John emerged from the kitchen with a kettle in one hand. "Help me set the table, yeah?


	6. Chapter 6

Trapped. That was the feeling. Sherlock was in one of those ridiculous mime boxes. He couldn't speak and he couldn't bring himself to cross the invisible threshold.

John was right in front of him, but somehow he wasn't. Sherlock wished he'd put a rest to that domestic grin and hurry up and punch him. At least then he'd know where he was, that there were no barriers between them.

"Something wrong?" John asked.

_Very, very wrong,_ Sherlock thought.

The kettle was returned to its burner. John padded over to where Sherlock was frozen in the sitting room. Sock feet. John didn't do sock feet. Shoes on if he was coming from outside, bare feet if from his room or the shower.

"Hey," he said, laying his palm gently on the side of Sherlock's face. John's comforting gaze was met with narrowly concealed horror. "What happened? This isn't like you." A slight frown. Blink three times rapidly. Resume illogical expression.

Sherlock found words at last. "How long have I been gone?"

"Not long," John chuckled. "Why? Did you miss me?"

_I do._ "Terribly."

John got up on his tip toes and planted a quick peck on Sherlock's cheek. He turned back to the kitchen as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock was overcome with the urge to rush after him, gather him in his arms and kiss him mad. But John was in conversation with a Hamish that wasn't there and Sherlock had to face the truth. John was already mad. And Sherlock had made him that way.

/p

The best course of action, Sherlock decided, was to gather the facts. He had to separate what was in John's head from what was true. To do so, he'd have to discover the extent of the delusion.

Treat it like a case, Sherlock told himself. It's just a puzzle. You're good at those. You're brilliant at them. John told you so. He realized with a shudder that what John told him held no credibility from here out.

John insisted it was his night to put Hamish to bed. Sherlock took the opportunity to search the flat.

Dust layers. They were critical to be studied first. His skull was thoroughly covered. John hadn't touched it or moved it in at least two months. It hadn't seen proper care for longer than Sherlock would have liked. Imaginary Sherlock hasn't been keeping up with his chores, the real Sherlock brooded.

He stalked around the room, utilizing his pocket magnifying glass when necessary. All the data he collected was stored in a room of his mind palace that he would burn when this was all over. He wanted this to be over. He wanted it to be possible for this to be over.

The rubbish bin was distressing. It was half full with broken pencils and crayons along with a sickening volume of leftovers. Whole meals worth. John hated waste. Even without his memories of Afghanistan, he was frugal by nature.

By the closure of his preliminary investigation, there was a lengthy list of details about John's new reality. Sherlock carefully tucked the information in cardboard moving boxes, labeled them, and stacked them in the condemned room of the mind palace. It was back breaking work, more painful than if they had been literal boxes that Sherlock was physically stacking.

John's footsteps were approaching from his (now Hamish's) room. The strides were even, no trace of a psychological limp relapse. Did that indicate content with his fabricated life? Was there not one qualm in John's mind to make him realize the endless falsities he was surrounding himself with?

"Sherlock?" he yawned. "Coming to bed?"

Sherlock had suspected this would happen. John clearly thought they were in some sort of relationship. They were raising a child and John had given Sherlock a casual kiss earlier. The skin of the hollow under his cheek bone felt strange and tingly at the thought. How could a kiss from John ever stoop to be called casual?

"In a moment," Sherlock lied in hopes that the imaginary version of himself would take his place once John went back to the bedroom. He didn't want to deal with this today. He had a night of sorting to do. Thinking up a plan for tomorrow.

"Are you working on something?" John asked, taking hold of his sleeve.

Sherlock glanced down at the contact. He'd always assumed that John was more of a keep-personal-space kind of partner. "Sort of, I-" He brought his eyes up again to find himself nose to nose with John.

"Science can let me borrow you for one night, hm?" said John. Tone: low. Intent: all too clear.

He could have avoided it. He should have put in a greater effort, but the entirety of his resolve vanished along with the distance between them. John was kissing him, full on this time. He sank into the it, letting John part his lips and feeling his eye lids flutter.

John burned him everywhere he touched. At first Sherlock thought it was a good kind of fire, but that assumption came back at him like a poorly thrown boomerang. He was taking advantage of John. He'd done nothing to deserve this kind of attention.

"John," Sherlock gasped. "John, stop."

John did stop, but only gave him an inch. "You can't kiss me like that and expect me to walk away," he warned.

Sherlock scrambled for words. There was only one that would fit. "Work," he explained.

John didn't seem to take it personally. The lust in his eyes softened to understanding. Sherlock nearly sighed in relief.

/p

What little sleep he did accomplish took place on the couch. It was deliciously familiar, even if John's side was more worn than his own at this point. Between trips to his mind palace, Sherlock would open his eyes to the unchanged wall paper and renew his strength for the case. For John's case.

There had to be an answer. He would solve this.


	7. Chapter 7

John was confused. He'd kissed Sherlock hundreds of times over the... however long they'd been together. Never before had it been warm. Even now, the touch lingered. John sat heavily on the edge of their bed and pressed his fingers to his lips. Earlier today, it had been different too, the same kind of different. When he touched Sherlock's face upon his return to the flat.

A flittering buzz circled his head. He swatted at it, lost in thought. As he pondered, it gained strength, pestering him with greater volumes and swooping to flit in front of his eyes. It was the bug that he'd almost forgotten about. The one that wasn't a bug at all, but a rolled up message, something he was supposed to remember.

There was no tremble in John's hand when he reached out to grab at the bug. It must be dangerous. It must be important. He should catch it, he should read it, he should sort this whole mess out.

The bug repeatedly darted away until John made himself still, hands resting on his knees, palms facing up. After a moment, the bug settled on his fingertips. It didn't have legs, John noticed with curiosity, slowly bring the hand it had perched on to his eye level. Color refracted along the ridges of its wings, glints so tiny that they would appear clear at any farther distance. The paper itself was a scrap of lined loose leaf. It had graphite smudges and a few tears but was otherwise in decent condition. The wings fluttered impatiently, eager for John to read the note.

The weirdest thing was that he could feel it. The edges of the paper were slightly frayed and he could feel the brush of the fibers. It was so real, but so bizarre that it couldn't be.

Why did that remind him of Sherlock?

John winced. He shooed the bug away. It wasn't real.

/p

The text message inbox of Sherlock Holmes.

[6:34 AM, Tuesday]  
More data is available if needed. MH

[6:48 AM, Tuesday]  
I could send a car. MH

[7:01 AM, Tuesday]  
36 hours left. MH

[7:23 AM, Tuesday]  
I doubt you have anything of use. SH

[7:24 AM, Tuesday]  
Security footage of the sitting room. Interested? MH

[7:37 AM, Tuesday]  
How far back? SH

[7:38 AM, Tuesday]  
Eight days. MH

[7:41 AM, Tuesday]  
Send me day one. SH

[7:56 AM, Tuesday]  
You'll have to come here for it, I'm afraid. MH

[7:59 AM, Tuesday]  
I can't leave John. SH

[8:00 AM, Tuesday]  
Understood. MH

/p

Near misses. Sherlock hated them. They could ruin a case that could have otherwise been a simple matter. They were a challenge, sure, but a hinderance more than another layer of intrigue.

Such a thing happening now would bridge the realm of annoying into threatening. He needed every possible clue. Sherlock gritted his teeth and did something he'd never done before. He called Mycroft.

His brother picked up on the first ring.

"I can honestly say I didn't anticipate this. You haven't initiated communication since-"

"I'd like that to stay deleted, thanks," Sherlock grimaced.

Mycroft obliged him. This was hardly the time for tomfoolery. "What do you need?"

"Did John talk to himself before he," Sherlock paused to squelch down a lump nested in his diaphragm, "he said he didn't believe in me."

"Yes," said Mycroft, "but not the way he does now. Before that conversation, if he did talk to himself, it was hushed and he always made certain no one was around."

That was useful. It accounted for the time of death.

"He's quite enamored with you, you know," Mycroft pointed out to fill the gap in conversation. "It'd be adorable if it wasn't so bad for his health."

Sherlock didn't respond. He would rather John hated him than use a fake version of himself as a crutch. No, that was lie. He only had one friend, and he was too selfish to give him up.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, "what am I doing?"

Mycroft was taken aback. "You're saving your friend, Sherlock."

"I'm not a psychologist. I'm not a doctor. I'm a detective. I find murderers, but that doesn't make the victim any less dead!"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft raised his voice. "You're his best friend. That's all the qualification you need. And John's not dead. Don't you dare give up on him yet."

Usually Sherlock hated when Mycroft was more right than him. Right now, he didn't mind as much.

/p

The alarm read half past eight. The late shift started at fifteen hundred and ran until the clinic closed at twenty-one thirty. Thus were John's Tuesdays.

If he wasn't working a case, Sherlock would take Hamish to the bus at seven thirty so John could sleep in. The world's only consulting detective didn't have lazy days, but he was tolerant enough to let his partner have one on occasion.

On especially good days, Sherlock would pick up his lap top after dropping off Hamish and return to bed. John would awake to a bluish glow and the taping of keys.

Today, Sherlock sat with his back to the headboard and his chin tucked to his chest, fingers meeting in an arch in front of him. He stared very intently at his toes, but glanced to John's side of the bed when he stirred.

"Good morning," John murmured, breath heavy with sleep.

Sherlock said nothing, choosing instead to unsteeple his fingers and meet John's halfway across the duvet.

"Did you figure out what you were working on?" John prompted.

He made a faint noise in his throat that John took as an affirmative. All nighters either made Sherlock exuberantly talkative or in mood of not wanting stimulus at all. Today was tipping towards the later.

John stretched one hand over his head, the one that wasn't intertwined with Sherlock's, and cracked his neck. After a yawn and a comfortable silence, John deemed it time to scrounge up a late breakfast. A growl of his stomach confirmed it.

Lean arms wrapped around him and pulled him back onto the bed when he made an effort to stand. A noise of surprise left John and soon he found himself in a tight hug, his nose pressed to Sherlock's shoulder.

"What brought this about?" John asked. He returned the embrace gladly.

Sherlock held him tighter still, as if John would disappear at any moment. "Whatever happens," he said, barely above a whisper, "I love you."

"And I love you," John completed the sentiment. "We've told each other a thousand times. I'm not about to forget."

Sherlock seemed content with that. They walked to the kitchen hand in hand. There were two cups of steaming tea already on the table. It smelled like Earl Grey, John's favorite before-

"Good morning, John," greeted Sherlock, still in his clothes from the night before. He sat at the table facing John, his look expectant.

The affect was immediate. To his right, the Sherlock that he had woken to. To his left, a Sherlock that had made him tea. Neither of them noticed the other and John felt suddenly sick seeing both of them.

The bug reappeared with a vengeance. Every wing beat hissed _I told you so._


	8. Chapter 8

The catalogue of this morning's phone conversation was laid out on the inside of Sherlock's eyelids.

"I'm not a psychologist. I'm not a doctor. I'm a detective. I find murderers, but that doesn't make the victim any less dead!"

"Sherlock! You're his best friend. That's all the qualification you need. And John's not dead. Don't you dare give up on him yet."

"I won't."

"You'll figure this out. You've done it before. Organize what you've been given and do what you do."

"I don't have much to work with, Mycroft."

"You don't get to choose what you have at your disposal. Take the cards you're dealt and use what you have."

Sherlock opened his eyes. Now he had a plan. It wasn't fail safe and it wouldn't end well even in the best of conditions, but he had something. A means to an end. A solution to the terrifying case of John Watson.

/p

The only sounds that registered in John's mind were the tiny wing beats of the imaginary insect and the buzz of its "I tried to warn you"s. His eyes focused on the pair of Sherlocks, sure he was dreaming or tripping but at the same time certain that he was very much awake. He shook himself out of his stupor. Noises returned in a rush of stimulus.

"John," said the Sherlock at the table. He stood, pushing his chair back abruptly. The scrape of wood on the floor was strangely emphasized. "Something doesn't fit. There's a flaw-"

"What is it, John?" demanded the Sherlock at John's side. "You have to tell me!"

"Shut _up_!" John shouted. "Both of you!"

"Both of us?" they said in unison.

/p

What did John mean by that? ran Sherlock's internal monologue. Of corse. The chance he had been waiting for. Something wasn't in sync with John's imagined reality, something that he couldn't ignore.

Two Sherlocks in one room would do the trick. That meant that the fake one was in the room with him. Perfect.

He had to make John see. He had to expose the other him as a fake. He had to outwit himself.

/p

Think, Watson, think! John scolded himself. There were two of them. At least one of them had to be a lie. Why was he so comfortable with the idea that he was imagining things? Had this happened before?

The bug buzzed in his face, clearly impatient.

At least one of them was a lie. That meant- it was certainly a possibility-

Sherlock might have survived.

He might be in this room. Right now.

John looked up. He hadn't realized that he'd been hunched over, shielding his face with his hands.

Of corse he'd survived. They'd been living together for years. Together in every sense of the word. The happiest years of their lives. What had there been to survive? Other than the normal 'could be dangerous' and the domestics that made John want to brutally murder him on occasion.

"You're always so cold," John said to the open air.

"It's because he's not there," said Sherlock on the left. Table Sherlock.

"Why am I cold, John?" asked Sherlock on his right. John must have forced their hands apart to cover his face. Dark curls swept around sad eyes, a look that was bracing for betrayal. "Figure it out. You can do it."

"You weren't- not last night." John's brow creased. He fixed the floor with a stare. His line of sight was interrupted by almost transparent wings.

John spoke again. "One of you is real."

Left Sherlock crossed the room to stand in front of him. "What do you remember about a week ago?"

John blinked. "Our fight? What does that-"

"Answer the question. You know my methods."

"Not much," John said slowly. "I don't remember what it was about, really. We made up. Rather fast, actually."

"John, you're talking to yourself," said Sherlock on the right. He was scared. He was trying to hide it, but he was scared.

John's eyes darted back to Left Sherlock. He was removing his gloves. "I've always had bad circulation," he said. "but never to the extent of loosing body heat completely." He placed his hands on either side of John's face.

Warm.

John felt himself stutter something, but he had no idea what. The Sherlock to his right smiled weakly and vanished.

"You have to remember," the Sherlock that remained insisted.

"The bug," John managed. "The note with wings. I have to-" He backed out of Shelock's hands, searching from side to side.

No buzzing sound. No reflections off almost not-there wings. No _"I told you so"_s.

It was gone.


End file.
